Prison has the power to change a man. It turns him into a hollow shell - a mere shadow of his former self. Well, that's what it did to Jack Napier. When he was sent to prison at the age of 19, (for a crime he did not commit), he was a sensitive, kind-hearted young man. He was talented, and clever, and before he had been convicted, he had had a promising future - he was going to become an attorney, and had dreams of working as a D.A.

But sadly, being around the scum of the city - the mob goons, pimps, dealers and crooks had a negative affect on him, and it turned him into a cold, unfeeling monster, a heartless beast, devoid of all feeling. When he was released, he was a changed man. His mind had been poisoned, his body scarred, and his kind, gentle nature destroyed. He was no longer a man, but now a machine. Programmed to destroy and devastate, he no longer even recognised his own mother - he would have killed her too, if he had felt like it.

When he was sent to prison, he had been dependant on friends, family, and on their love and support. But he had had to survive on his own in prison and so the other inmates had picked on him, naturally. He was an easy target: too easy, really. It started that they merely spat at him or taunted him as he passed, but soon he was being brutally attacked - they showed him no mercy. When he had tried to fight back, they taught him a lesson. Day and night, he was tormented, abused, and alone. The night of his first failed attempt to take his own life, his cell-mate, the notorious killer Paul Millander, took hold of him, and pulled out the small blade that had been smuggled in for him by an accomplice.

"What's wrong with you? Eh, buddy?" he had whispered menacingly. "Not enjoying my company?"

Jack had shaken his head, and closed his eyes.

"Come on then, give me a smile."

Jack shook his head again, and tried desperately to squirm free.

"Stop, let go!" he pleaded.

"Shut up, freak. I just want a bit of fun."

Keeping the hand holding the blade to Jack' throat, he moved his other hand to his flies, and unzipped them.

"Please. Don't do it." Jack pleaded. "Just let me go!"

"Don't worry. You'll enjoy it. Just don't struggle or I'll have to hurt you."

Jack had struggled relentlessly against Paul's vice-like grip, but it was no use, and so Paul had his way with Jack on the hard mattress of the bottom bunk.

When Paul had finished, he pushed Jack, who was sobbing, onto his knees on the floor.

"Now, that wasn't too bad, was it?"

Jack sat, crying silently, eyes shut tightly. Paul grabbed his hair, pulled his head up, and growled,

"I want you to look at me, fag."

Jack opened his eyes, and sniffed loudly.

"What's wrong? Didn't you have fun? I know I did." Paul said softly, smirking at him.

Jack just bowed his head again, and looked at the floor.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Paul shouted, wrenching Jack' head up again, and placing the blade inside his mouth.

"Do I have to MAKE you smile myself?"

Jack whimpered, and tried to shake his head.

Paul just laughed maniacally, "You're pathetic, you know that?", and pushed the blade deeper into the corner of his mouth .

Jack cried out in pain and then screamed as the cuts spread, which made Paul laugh harder.

"Please stop... Please stop..." Jack pleaded.

"You know, that's exactly what my last victim whispered while I strangled her..." Paul hissed, taking the blade from the right side of Jack' mouth, to the left, and slicing through the skin.

"Please." Jack croaked.

"Shut up," Paul growled, pushing the blade deeper. "There we go."

He kicked Jack hard in the stomach, and laughed maniacally as he screamed, forcing the cuts near his mouth to spread further up his cheeks.

"Now you'll always be happy to see me." He said when he finished, and stepped back, as if surveying his 'work'.

"Clean the blood up, and then go to sleep. And stop fucking crying." Paul ordered.

"I'm going to bed."

Jack sat up slowly, then took the dirty towel from the rail in the corner, and mopped the pool of his blood from off the floor, tears streaming down his face as he did so.

That was the night that things started to change for Jack. After that night, he built up emotional barriers, and shut everyone out. When he was beaten, he said nothing - he just took it as if he were a punch-bag, and then when the tormentors became bored, he would pick himself up, and brood silently, separate from the rest. Whenever Paul grabbed him, he wouldn't resist. If he tried to rape him, so what? He had been humiliated so much already, what more could they do? They started to leave him alone then; they couldn't get a response out of him, so there was no point. They still taunted him sometimes, called him a freak, and said he was a pussy for not sticking up for himself, but he ignored it. He blocked it all out, and just carried on.

There was one thing that kept him going though, the thought that kept him alive, gave him the will to live: the thought of exacting his revenge. Each time someone shouted something at him, he conjured an image of him killing them in his mind. Whenever he was pushed out of the way in the yard, he imagined himself beating them to a pulp, hearing their screams as he hurt them, just as he had been hurt. But every night before he went to sleep, he pictured himself torturing Paul, seeing the look of agony on his twisted face as he writhed on the floor. This was what gave him the most satisfaction; sometimes he had to force himself not to laugh, to remain passive. He could almost hear the screams for mercy. He knew that Paul enjoyed the power that murdering somebody gave him, and he would enjoy nothing more than to strip him of that power, and take it for himself. He would make them all pay. He would be feared by all those who hurt him; they would know that he would come for them, but he would wait, let them sweat, and then strike when they least expected.

Jack had also dreamed of being great, of being someone more powerful than he'd ever dreamed before. He wanted to be the bane of Gotham's existence, the thorn in its metaphorical side, the plague of its streets; he wanted to rule over the city that he had once tried to save. He liked to look back upon his prison days as a learning curve, albeit a rather steep one. When he was freed, he applied his mask of face paint, and put on his new suit, and suddenly he became a new person; better, stronger, fiercer, stranger – and he would never look back. He had been reborn as a new man, and he would use this fresh start, and his anonymity along with all his brains and contacts to one day become the greatest, most powerful criminal mastermind in Gotham, because he was sure that the good citizens of Gotham needed a better class of criminal – and wasn't he, the man that they would soon come to know as the Joker, as good a man as any to give it to them?

Hello everyone :]

This is the first story I've posted on here, so all reviews and constructive criticism would be so appreciated.

I don't have a beta, although I have proof-red, but if you see any mistakes, I'm sorry.

And I'm sorry if this chapter was too graphic…